


He's Got the Whole World in his Pants

by jeeno2



Series: Reylo One-Shots [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Crack, F/M, POV First Person, Pants, pantslo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 23:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/pseuds/jeeno2
Summary: Six moments in time—from the perspective of Kylo Ren’s high-waisted pants.





	He's Got the Whole World in his Pants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KyloTrashForever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyloTrashForever/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [В его штанах целый мир](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21817876) by [Scofie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scofie/pseuds/Scofie)



> Happy early birthday, KTF <3 <3 <3! I had a ton of fun writing this and I hope this is everything you hoped this crazy fic would be. 
> 
> To everyone else: allow me to introduce you to Pantslo :D

**One**

Kylo Ren grips me, hard, with both hands.

He pulls me up his thick thighs and over his impressive posterior. When my waistband finally reaches his navel he buttons me, making a quiet noise in the back of his throat that sounds, to my unpracticed ears, a lot like satisfaction.

I beam with pride.

“Yes,” Kylo murmurs, eyeing his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall of his quarters. He evaluates himself, turning this way and that, appreciating the way I hug his generous curves. The unique manner in which my high waist emphasizes the fullness of his bare pectorals. “This will do.”

Years from now, I will look back on today as being the first day of the rest of my life.

I can feel it in my stitches.

* * *

**Two**

Incredibly, today started out just like any other day.

I woke up the same way I always do: hung up in my usual spot in the wardrobe sector, right between those wretched, obsequious grey slacks (they’re slated to go to a General Armitage Hux soon, apparently), and that strange, haughty gold lamé robe that never speaks to anybody.

Service droids were bustling in and out of the room in the moments just before my life would change irrevocably and forever, filling orders and hemming uniforms with the alacrity and precision expected of all of us who play a part—no matter how small—in the First Order.

I was just about to sneer at the slacks that will soon be Hux’s—it is Tuesday, after all; I sneer a lot on Tuesdays—when a man entered the wardrobe sector, staring straight at me.

“Kylo Ren needs new pants,” he explained in a tinny, timid human voice. Mitaka, I think his name is. Though it hardly matters. “He has a scar across his midsection he’s rather self-conscious about. So he wants the waist to be quite high.”

_ Wait a minute, _ I thought to myself, my seams pounding hard and frantically. I  _ have a high waist. _

Because it’s true. I am a notable garment for several very specific reasons, one of them being that my waist is higher than just about any other waist in this sector. But that only makes me more special; or so claimed the Coruscanti tailor who made me and sold me for an exorbitant price to the First Order. 

Regardless, the next thing I knew, I was being unclipped from my hanger by a pair of dainty, shaky hands (Mitaka’s again), and sent via special delivery to the man I am already getting to know better and more intimately than anyone else. 

I am already starting to learn the shape of him. The weight and the heft of him. 

It’s the moment everyone dreams of: the moment we are chosen for uniform and sent into rotation. I never dared dream I’d be selected for someone as important as Kylo Ren.

It’s been twelve hours and I can still hardly believe this is real.

I keep waiting for someone to pinch my zipper and for me to wake up back in my usual spot in the wardrobe sector, all of this nothing more than an elaborate dream.

* * *

**Three**

I’ve been Kylo Ren’s go-to pants for a week now.

For the most part it’s been everything I’d hoped it would be. Every other uniform we see cowers in fear whenever we enter a room. 

Or exit a room.

Or really do just about anything at all either in or out of a room.

After a lifetime spent waiting for my moment in the sun, so to speak, it’s been incredibly gratifying, all this cowering.

There have, however, been a few unexpected surprises.

Well.

One unexpected surprise, anyway.

Kylo Ren is a large man. A very large man. Everyone knows this. Even the uniforms. Gods, everybody in the wardrobe sector used whisper about how big he was from the moment I was brought aboard this vessel.

What no one ever talked about, though--at least, not within my zippershot--was how a very specific part of Kylo’s already impressively large anatomy sometimes… gets even bigger. And when I say  _ bigger _ what I really mean is it goes from the size of a space hot dog to a veritable space cucumber in the span of less than ten seconds.

No one prepared me for that.

And this…  _ part _ of him doesn’t just get bigger. No; it also gets really,  _ really _ hard. As hard as a lightsaber, I’d imagine, if a lightsaber were carried down the front of a person’s high-waisted black leather pants rather than hooked to their belt.

This phenomenon doesn’t happen all the time. It isn’t even every day; at least, not that I’m aware of. But when it happens it’s very distressing. And I mean  _ distressing  _ in the literal sense, in that it feels like my leather is about to be torn right the fuck in half, right along my zipper, just from the immense pressure of that  _ thing _ pressing up against my heavily distressed seams.

There’s only so much internal pressure I was tailored to take. You know?

I’m still really grateful to have been selected for this role. To be the pants of choice of the famed Kylo Ren? It’s still a dream come true.

But this part of being Kylo Ren’s high-waisted pants? I do not enjoy it. Not at all.

I hope it stops soon.

Because it can’t be a normal physiological phenomenon. How can it be? How could that part of a person get so big and huge and  _ hard _ and stiff and the person in question not pass out from blood loss to the brain, let alone live to tell the tale?

If this continues I may try speaking with that creepy old melted black helmet. Kylo loves that thing. I bet it’ll know what’s happening and what I can do to try and stop this.

* * *

**Four**

It isn’t stopping.

It’s been two weeks since I left the wardrobe sector. Two long weeks, during which this… situation is only cropping up more and more frequently.

I finally talked to the melted black helmet. It didn’t get me far. When I explained what was going on and how concerned I’ve become it just heaved a tired sigh and called me a naive idiot.

I won’t lie. Its dismissive attitude stung. Quite a lot, in fact.

Anyway, Kylo spent at least an hour tonight wandering around his quarters in a daze, shirtless and dressed only in me. At one point he started talking very intently to nobody at all, saying cryptic, melodramatic things like “let the past die.”

Whatever the kriff that’s supposed to mean.

If I’m being honest, there are times I do worry for the man’s sanity.

Anyway, right now he’s lying down in his bed, wide awake. He normally changes out of me and into sleeping pants when he prepares for bed, but tonight, he’s kept me on.

He reaches for my button and pops it open with two thick fingers. Then he tears down my poor little zipper so quickly it hurts, and I’d cry out in pain if I had lips or a mouth. Or vocal chords.

“Rey,” he moans. Which seems like an odd thing to moan. But I think I’ve just about given up trying to make any sense of this man and his mutterings.

A moment later he shoves his hand inside me. And grabs his large, massive, swollen…  _ thing. _

He starts to rub it. Hard, and fast. Jerking his hand up and down with so much force he  _ has  _ to be hurting himself. I don’t really know what is happening right now or  _ why _ he is doing this, but his  _ thing _ is  _ massive _ right now, bigger than I’ve ever seen it, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no  _ no. _

He just made this very large, very swollen part of his anatomy throw up.

Oh, kriff.

Oh, gods.

I don’t even know what is happening right now or if he needs to see a medic or what, but I now have a giant blob of his sticky thing-vomit all over the front of my leather. And even though I know he cares for me a great deal—almost as much as that stupid melted helmet, probably—I don’t think he gives one single kriff about the mess he’s just made of himself, and of me.

At least he’s not squeezing that thing of his to death anymore.

“Rey,” he murmurs, sounding a little breathless. But all I can think about is whether or not that stuff is going to stain.

* * *

**Five**

Earlier tonight, Kylo was summoned to the cargo bay to retrieve a shipment that’s just arrived. Kylo was told he himself needed to personally oversee its arrival. So whatever it was, I figured it must be very important.

But now we’re here and… it’s just a girl. Resistance scum, from the looks of her. And not even anybody important, if the scavenger rags she’s wearing mean anything.

Why she has shipped herself to Kylo Ren in a tiny little container ship in a full face of makeup is beyond me.

But whatever the reason, here she is.

I also do not know why Kylo Ren was personally summoned to collect this girl. But no one ever thinks to explain anything to me.

I’m just about to say something to the uniforms standing on either side of us—to ask them who this girl is and why we were summoned—when I feel it again. The pull to the hardness. “The Hardness” is what I’ve started calling it when that wayward appendage that hangs long and heavy between Kylo’s powerful thighs begins its strange, inelastic dance.

Gods, I am so sick of this.

“Rey,” Kylo says, as he escorts her, handcuffed, to the elevator. My zipper perks up. I’ve heard that name before.

Where have I heard that name before?

The girl steps closer to him once inside the elevator and says words to him. Words about how he’ll turn. I don’t know whether or not it’s true, or what it even means, but she steps even closer, and stares at his plush, full lips, and—

And suddenly, I know exactly where I’ve heard that name before.

_ No. _

I feel the pull to the hardness once again--even stronger than before--as the elevator doors open to the Supreme Leader’s throne room.

* * *

**Six**

A lot has changed in the two months since Kylo Ren became Supreme Leader.

Most of these changes have been for the better.

For starters, the cowering from all the other uniforms and the people wearing them has increased substantially. Which has been wonderfully gratifying. I no longer have Sneering Tuesdays because I get to sneer every day, all day long. While sitting on the Supreme Leader’s throne. Does it get any better than that? I really don’t see how it could.

And the distressing situation— _ from the inside _ , as it were—has improved. Thank the Maker. Well—it’s improved somewhat, anyway.  _ It  _ seems to be happening more often when he’s not wearing me, and less often when he is. And because  _ it _ never seems to bother the Supreme Leader much, mostly what I care about is how often this situation impacts me. 

The only problem with our post-Snoke lives, really, is Rey.

Rey.

Rey, and her ridiculous, barely-even-qualifies-as-pants pants that I absolutely do not spend an inordinate percentage of my hanging (and sometimes non-hanging) hours thinking about.

Rey is here right now, in fact. In the Supreme Leader’s bed with him, though it’s clear to me they’re not sleeping. In truth, I don’t really know what they’re doing. Not exactly, anyway. Oh, I’ve heard whispers and lude comments from utility droids just like the next uniform. Still, though. The  _ whats _ and the  _ whys _ of what they’re doing right now are still a bit of a mystery.

All I know is it seems to involve a lot of strange noises. And nakedness. And Kylo Ren stabbing at Rey with  _ that part _ of himself in much the same way a tailor stabs at his cloth with a sharp needle. In, and out. In, and out. Again, and again, and again. Until the pants are completed.

With how long they’ve been going at this you’d think whatever they’re making would have been completed hours ago.

“Hi,” Rey’s not-really-pants say to me, from their vantage point: crumpled up on the floor beside the Supreme Leader’s bed, just a few feet away from where I myself lie crumpled up on the floor.

I try to ignore them. Just like I always try to ignore them. Because why would I want to talk to scavenger pants? I don’t want to talk to scavenger pants. Not ever.

They are beneath me. Have always  _ been _ beneath me.

“Hi,” I say back. Because although I don’t think about those not-really-pants,  _ ever _ , I’m not an asshole. I look at them out of the corner of my eye in spite of myself and give a sharp little nod.

They wink at me. Or try to, anyway. It’s difficult for pants to wink without a nice sturdy zipper to do it with.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Rey says from the bed. She’s on top of the Supreme Leader now, bouncing around and jiggling. The round little things she has on her chest that are usually covered up by her pathetic scavenger shirt are dangling above Kylo’s face, all small and pink and... dangly. And he’s staring up at them, at her, with so much wonder you’d think he’d just won a tough game of sabacc.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” the Supreme Leader says. Which he usually only says when he’s upset. Though for some reason I don’t think he’s upset right now. Meanwhile Rey’s not-really-pants are still over there, just  _ looking _ at me. Even though I still refuse to look at them. 

I start counting stitches in my head to distract myself from the indignity of being crumpled up on the floor.

On second thought, maybe Kylo’s becoming Supreme Leader wasn’t really worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on twitter at [jeenonamit](https://twitter.com/jeenonamit/)!  
> Or on tumblr, also at [jeenonamit](https://jeenonamit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
